I already miss you. No more early mornings together. No more afternoons in the armchair by the fire reliving each word, each syllable of our life together.
I’m lonely. Would it be shallow of me to move on already? The ink barely dry, and yet, a new possibility appears on my horizon. Perhaps new a love will fill the emptiness.
My dear novel, I wish you well. I hope a publisher takes you to greater heights.
And I will start again with my new idea.